I’m a bargain-hunter. I’d like to think of this as one of my better qualities, instead of, as my husband puts it, “an acute kind of madness.” And granted, sometimes I do strange things to avoid spending money. Not unethical things, mind you. I’ve never shoplifted or stolen anything (okay, FINE, there was that one time), but I will go to ridiculous lengths to save a buck.
We stayed at the Harbor Court Hotel during our last trip to San Francisco.
Every afternoon they had chocolate chip cookies and popcorn in the foyer. I didn’t really notice much else, because come on – free popcorn and free chocolate chip cookies? I’d sleep in a Ford Pinto and give it five stars if you handed me a collection of treats provided by Messrs. Orville Redenbacher and Otis Spunkmeyer.
There’s an old Cary Grant movie called People Will Talk. If you haven’t seen it, go do so now. I’ll wait.
Wasn’t it amazing? I know. I love it, too. I have a weak spot for Cary Grant. Actually, I have several weak spots for Cary Grant, and they’re all located around my knees, or thereabouts.
And in that movie, he kind of reminds me of Rand.
Oh, STOP rolling your eyes. I need none of that nonsense. A girl in love is entitled to see things how she wants. If I want to think that cake is reasonable breakfast food and that I can pull off skinny jeans and that my husband is Cary Grant-like, I can. A little self-delusion never hurt anyone. Without it, Madonna would have never tried acting and JLo would have never tried singing. THINK ABOUT THOSE GEMS OF ARTISTIC MERIT, why don’t you, before you knock it.
San Francisco, on a chilly night.
Geraldine, who is totally awesome.
Rand, who is usually awesome but last night left his dirty laundry in a pile on the bedroom floor, which is so not cool.
Geraldine and Rand are walking down a street in San Francisco. It is windy, and they are clutching their coats. They pass an old building with an elaborate entryway. Suddenly, Geraldine starts screaming.
I’m getting a little too comfortable with San Francisco. We go so often – probably a half-dozen times a year or so, that I’ve started feeling like I take it for granted. That city has an astounding amount of beauty and quirkiness (and just plain weirdness) to offer, but I’ve grown so used to it, I often to neglect to take photos.
I tried to rectify that a little on this last trip. I dragged my camera everywhere. I even – shudder – took a few photos inside a museum (it was for the good of the blog, so I hope you’ll forgive me). Here’s a recap of our trip, in ten photos.
I feel sorry for people who have normal friends.
I’m sure befriending normal people has its merits. It must be nice to go out to a restaurant without having to apologize to the family next to you for what transpires at your table. And having someone dependable who can pick you up from the airport because they are not, at the age of 40, stoned out of their gourd and watching The Transporter 3 (in this PURELY HYPOTHETICAL SITUATION), would probably save you a bit in cabfare.
But, damn, it must be boring. No giggling until you are doubled-over, breathlessly gasping, “I’m going to pee!” No late night invites to drag shows starring people who were invited to your wedding. No immature, tired innuendos when one of you is eating pie. How sad.
I prefer my company to be just slightly unhinged. Not terribly so, mind you (keep your moon-landing deniers – I’ve no interest in them). But if you tell me your new hobby, is, say, painting tiny little leather-clad gimps into beautiful landscapes, or force me to spend half an hour on the floor of my home while you gently perform sacral realignment on me (which involves barely touching my scalp), or decide that even though we’ve just eaten lunch, some Chick-fil-A sounds like a really good idea, well, we are probably going to be friends.
If my last voyage out to New York was the trip of cupcakes, then my most recent trip to San Francisco was the jaunt of ice cream.
Because in the few days that I spent there, I ate a lot of it. I can process dairy far better than the next gal (particularly if the next gal is, say, my friend Giselle, who’s entirely allergic to the stuff) but by the end of my trip I was a farty, bloated mess.
I mean, more so.
Of course, the ice cream was not entirely to blame. There was also pizza, and pasta, and copious quantities of cheese. But mostly, it was the frozen confection that did me in.
In spite of all of that, I regret absolutely nothing. It was a moral act, gobbling up all that ice cream. I sacrificed myself so that others might live without crippling gastrointestinal pain as a result of downing a gallon or so of frozen, churned milk. My work is still not finished, but I will share my findings with you, with the caveat that these results are not entirely conclusive. There are more sprinkles to pile on, more scoops to lick, more cones to gobble.
That sounded dirty. I did not mean for it to.